


Not this year

by Imjohnlocked87



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Depressed John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Food Sex, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Valentine's Day, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29157834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjohnlocked87/pseuds/Imjohnlocked87
Summary: One month after leaving the rehabilitation centre, when Donovan asks Sherlock if he will be alone on Valentine's Day this year too, he replies he will be spending it with someone special.The only problem is that this someone doesn't exist.Because,  who would want  to have a Valentine's date with Sherlock Holmes?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 163
Collections: Be my Valentine - Johnlock Collection, Johnlock Anniversary - January 29th





	1. Not this year

"What about you, Freak? Another Valentine's Day to spend alone?" asked Donovan standing by the police tape around a warehouse, making no pretence of lifting it to let Sherlock pass.

Standing a little further along, Anderson and the rest of the officers, next to a woman's corpse lying on the ground, turned mockingly to the detective, while Lestrade shot them a warning look.

"No, not this year."

There was a stunned silence, and all eyes focused on Sherlock who, with an indifferent air, lifted the tape and walked with long strides, ignoring them all, until he crouched beside the corpse, his back to them, cursing silently. 

He would punch himself. He answered without thinking, a reflex response to the deep sting that the sergeant's question gave him.

He didn't quite understand why. He never minded being alone on Valentine's Day. It was a sappy thing for couples trying to recover the romance in their relationship or for those who wanted to get the attention of someone who, on a day-to-day basis, didn't pay the slightest attention to them, buying them with foolish hearts, red roses, mellifluous cards, silly phrases and stupid things like that. The only thing worthy were the chocolates, and only because he had a sweet tooth.

Deep inside, he didn't care about Donovan, Anderson and the rest of the officers. What made him uneasy was to feel Lestrade's inquisitive and concerned gaze on the back of his neck, a firm promise of a very close interrogation from Mycroft. Ugh.

He didn't even want to imagine how humiliating the conversation would be, confessing him that it all was a lie, that he didn't have a boyfriend - who would want someone like him for a boyfriend? But, worst of all, what puzzled him the most was that Donovan managed, with a simple question, to break through his armour and hurt him.

"Your right hand does not count as a boyfriend, freak," sneered Anderson, once he recovered from his surprise, making everyone laugh obscenely and mockingly. 

Sherlock ignored him and bit his lips to keep the invective from rising in his throat. He didn't want to think about the implications of the coroner's rudeness.

He had long since given up masturbating - not that he did it very often, but from time to time, his transport had inescapable needs that he had to take care of. It used to be easy to satisfy them, a few well-delivered strokes, indulge in a few orgasmic seconds and get on with the case.

But for a month now, when he masturbated, he longed for contact with another human being, for hands to caress him, lips to kiss him, a mouth to whisper praises in his ear or dirty talk to turn him on; in sum, someone to make love to. This new sensation terrified and disconcerted him and, not knowing how to cope with it, he stopped masturbating, no matter how much his transport protested, as it did now, at the thought of it.

To erase the thought, instead of responding, he took out his magnifying glass and concentrated on a corner of the victim's coat lapel that had nothing interesting about it, but allowed him to ignore them all.

But he couldn't ignore himself.

Being honest, he knew why Donovan's joke had hurt him so much, and why he lied.

And the blame for it all, as always, lay with Mycroft.

It was he who, in collusion with Lestrade, forced him into a detox centre four months earlier. Mycroft gave him an ultimatum. Either he went there, or neither the DI nor anyone else in Scotland Yard would ever ask for his help on any case again, and Mycroft would himself make sure - he stressed - that no private client ever came through Sherlock's door to seek his services as a private detective.

Of course, he refused. As he did at other times, he counted on Lestrade to give in to his pleas, puppy faces, or unauthorised meddling in cases. Sometimes - the least - clean, sometimes - the usual - high as a kite; but, even so, able to deduce in seconds which the criminal was, which was what, he thought, Lestrade truly cared about.

The DI would also think like he did, that the fuss Mycroft made about what happened in the last case was excessive. Granted that, as usual, he went ahead alone in pursuit of the murderer and that, because of the drugs, his reflexes were not very sharp, which lead him to realise too late that he had a gun, and when he tried to dodge the bullet, he failed to do so completely.

It had not been a serious wound—a scratch, at most, that only needed a couple of days in the hospital to heal.

So he was convinced Lestrade thought that Mycroft, as usual, was overreacting and would take his side.

But the DI stood firm as a rock and didn't hesitate to throw him out of any crime scene where he turned up drugged at any of them. Throwing him out was a figure of speech because what he did was grab Sherlock, put him in the squad car and drive him home, with a demand that he was not to be seen again until the drugs had worn off. And so it went with each and every case until Sherlock realised that Lestrade would not give in, that none of his tricks would work on him, and Mycroft, this time, was decided to carry out his threats.

So, two weeks later, on the verge of dying of boredom for lack of cases, with no recollection of the last time he ate, and homeless because no landlord wanted the tenant whose only distraction was to shoot holes in the walls, he had no choice but to obey his brother's orders.

It had been a month since he returned to London, to Mycroft's house. His brother flatly refused to let him live on his own, at least not for a year after his release from the detox centre, as Sherlock's therapist instructed him to do when he came to pick him up.

The only encouragement was that Lestrade did allow him to return to the cases, though he was always on his tail, watching him, no matter how much the detective insisted that he was clean and wanted to stay that way.

And it was true. Sherlock didn't want to run out of cases again, and he certainly wanted to get out of Mycroft's house as soon as possible, where one of his assistants was always watching him. It was worse than the detox centre.

But at the beginning of February, when everyone started talking about what he was doing for Valentine's Day, about their plans with their partners, about the girl or the guy he liked..., he felt as he never felt before: lonely.

Or rather, he was forced to feel the loneliness. Before, when he wondered what it would be like to have someone by his side who loved, understood and accepted him, when sadness and emptiness overcame him because he knew he would never know what they were, drugs made those and any others feelings disappear as if by magic.

But now he couldn't ignore the pang of pain, loneliness, and the horrible, awful feeling of actually being a freak that led him to lie through his teeth to Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, and the ten-plus officers watching the crime scene. He couldn't quite get used to the feelings swirling around inside him, to all that was bubbling up inside him and he didn't quite know how to deal with it.

"Then I guess he will give you a Valentine's Day present," he heard Donovan say, in a tone that let him deduce she didn't believe a word he said.

"Of course."

"Do we know him?"

Lestrade's question made him swallow hard. For all Sherlock's ranting about his low intelligence, he knew the DI was no fool and, when necessary, showed a hunting dog's tenacity in following the trail to collect the prey. And this was one of those moments.

He blinked, giving himself a couple of seconds to think... How on earth could anyone have a boyfriend that no one in his inner circle had ever met, not even Mycroft with his surveillance systems?

"No. He lives abroad," Sherlock replied vaguely.

He knew better. The main identifying characteristic of a lie was to be too elaborate.

"Oh, how convenient" Anderson scoffed "And in what country exactly? In one of your famous Mind Palace?"

Shit, for once in his life the forensic got a deduction right, it had to be that one.

"No, in Afghanistan. He is a soldier, and is stationed there," he replied, remembering hearing something on the news about that at Mycroft's house.

There were hundreds of soldiers deployed there, and it would be impossible for those idiots people to find one of them, even more so with such vague details.

He got up and walked to the back of the warehouse. Not only to avoid further questions but to control the impulse to throw his hands on his head at his clumsiness. Neither Lestrade nor the others could find the mysterious soldier stationed there. But Mycroft only had to pick up the phone to have a complete list of each of them, with their biographies, including the most hidden details, such as possible secret relationships with big-mouthed consulting detectives.

His mouth went dry. The worst was that, as he said it, for an instant, he wished it were true. He wished that someone, on the other side of the world, missed him and were looking forward to celebrating Valentine's Day with him.

He ran his hand over his mouth, nervously. God, what he wouldn't give for..., no, no, drugs had to be out of the equation if he wanted to get Mycroft to stop watching him like a nagging Nanny.

"Well, you can show us what your little soldier gives you for Valentine's Day. You could even talk to him from Lestrade's office by video conference, and we will get to know him," Donovan proposed, with a wicked hint that confirmed his suspicions that she knew the truth.

"And why would he want to waste his time getting to know you?" snapped Sherlock, increasingly nervous, fighting the urge to run off to find one of his old dealers.

"Everything all right, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade, worried, frowning observing the trembling of his hands and how he repeatedly swallowed to relieve the dryness in his mouth.

"Yeah,...., I need to get some air. It's the smell."

The DI frowned even more. He didn't smell anything. Sherlock might have an almost canine olfactory sense, but he knew that wasn't the cause of his distress. Whatever it was, he recognised the symptoms of when the detective craved a fix.

He hesitated to call Mycroft. He supposed that, if anyone already knew about the detective's foreign boyfriend, it was him. But if not, he didn't want to betray the detective's trust, usually so closed and unwilling to talk about his private life.

But he couldn't help to be a bit alarmed, thinking that Sherlock might have met him at the detox clinic. It wouldn't be a good idea for him to hang out with another recovering ex-addict. They might end up doing something stupid. But if he was in Afghanistan, he couldn't have met him there. So where then? As far as he knew, the detective never travelled there or worked with the military.

"Enough of this Valentine's Day blabbering," he grunted, "you look like schoolgirls in love. We've got one dead body, and if we don't hurry, we may have more. Sherlock, what have you got?"

The detective gasped. For a moment he thought the DI was asking him what was wrong with him until he realised he was referring to the corpse, lying forgotten on the warehouse floor.

He forced himself to calm down and focus again on the victim.

While examining her, he sighed with relief. He came up with the solution: all he had to do was ask Mycroft to give him one of his boring cases that would keep him out of London for a couple of months. His brother would be delighted, and when he returned, Valentine's Day would be water under the bridge.


	2. A chess game

Sherlock spat out all the details so Lestrade could arrest the murderer, the victim's brother. He, finding out that his parents disinherited him and her sister remained the sole heir to the family fortune, stabbed her after a violent argument, and then ran to hide in her sister's flat.

For once, the detective was grateful that the case was straightforward. A conversation on the victim's WhatsApp showed up they had a meeting in that warehouse, a family property, to calmly discuss the matter. Before arriving there, she downloaded all the documents relating to the inheritance in her phone. Almost before Sherlock finished his explanation, several officers were already banging on the brother's door to arrest him.

"Donovan, wrap here," Lestrade ordered when the detainee was safely tucked away in Scotland Yard's cells.

He turned to the detective, adopting the most casual air he could.

"I don't even want to know the last time you had something to eat. It's on me".

Sherlock, who deduced that, in addition to making him eat, he wanted to ask him about his supposed boyfriend, shook his head.

"I'm meeting Molly at Bart's."

He took a few steps away and then returned to Lestrade, glancing around to make sure the others couldn't hear him.

"Lestrade..., don't tell Mycroft about... this. I don't want him sticking his nose in... you know what I mean."

"All right, I won't tell him anything. But don't do anything stupid, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and, without another word, turned, striding away, his coat billowing behind him, ignoring Lestrade's gaze glued to his back.

The DI stared at where Sherlock disappeared, undecided. The plea he read in the detective's eyes was so real that he had no choice but to give in. Deep down, he doubted that Mycroft didn't already know.

But he couldn't help to be uneasy at the thought that maybe he didn't. Lestrade knew that Sherlock could dodge Mycroft's agents who watched him with astonishing ease if he put his mind to it.

When he was out of the DI's sight, Sherlock sighed, grateful that Lestrade agreed to keep the secret. The last thing he wanted was to find his brother waiting for him, leaning on his umbrella (no matter if he was at home, or indoors, it was a must-have accessory for interrogations), left hand in his pocket, ready to grill him with questions.

Not because he needed to. Mycroft, unlike him, didn't miss a thing. Anything. Never. Even if it was a secret stored in the deepest recesses of an individual's unconscious, he could see it at a glance.

So he had to carefully think about what he would tell his brother to convince him to send him on a case abroad. And above all, so he would respond with a simple hum, without glancing at him. If he looked at Sherlock because something raised his suspicions, he would read the humiliating truth on his face.

Sherlock plunged through the streets, worrying his lower lip, hands tucked in his coat's pockets, instinctively dodging the other passers-by. He hardly saw them, totally focused on his thoughts and oblivious to what was going on around him.

He didn't warn Mycroft he wasn't going back home after closing the case. He didn't need to.

When Mycroft gave him the Belstaff as soon as he left the rehabilitation centre, Sherlock knew it wasn't just a gift. His brother never did things just for the sake of it, like the rest of mortals. It wasn't a brotherly impulse what led him to buy it, after seeing it in a shop and thinking that it would fit Sherlock incredibly well or protect him from the cold. He confirmed his suspicious within seconds of putting it on, when he brushed his fingers against the tracking device that one of his brother's assistants tried with little success to conceal inside the lining of the coat.

He didn't take it badly, at least not too badly. Mycroft's constant surveillance weighed on him, but, deep down, he understood that he did it for his good. Mycroft involved himself a lot in his detox, not only because the large amount of money it cost him but also by being promptly informed of the whole process, no matter how much all the staff denied it. His brother never left anything to chance.

Fortunately, he didn't have to worry about the money for the trip. Mycroft gave him an unlimited credit card, and he could spend whatever he wanted, on the sole condition that he never took out cash.

It was not a mere warning. A few days later, when, ignoring the prohibition, he tried to withdraw money to buy a pack of cigarettes, the cashier swallowed the card, and, five seconds later, the familiar black car was parked next to him, from where an angry Mycroft gestured for him to get in.

Therefore, Sherlock could not make any false move that would allow Mycroft to guess his true intentions.

He twisted the gesture. It was practically impossible.

In his home office, Mycroft left the documents he was reading on the table, leaned back in his chair and took a sip of tea, glancing at a screen where a bright red dot showed him at all times where Sherlock was. He knew his little brother was aware of the device and was grateful that he hadn't tried to get rid of it, a mutual agreement they reached without words.

His brother made a habit of wandering around London when he needed to think and immersing himself in his Mind Palace was not useful.

And he knew Sherlock had a lot to think about.

It related to the call Mycroft received from a concerned Lestrade as soon as the detective left the crime scene, telling him about his alleged boyfriend in Afghanistan.

The DI also asked him not to say anything to Sherlock; he explained he promised Sherlock not to speak with him, but the detective's downcast air led him to break his promise. He didn't want Sherlock to feel that he betrayed the trust he placed in him.

Mycroft promised not to tell Sherlock, and, after thanking Lestrade for the call, hung up. A second later, he asked Anthea for a detailed list - she knew exactly what that meant - of every single British soldier deployed in Afghanistan.

An hour later, it was on his table, and, while scrutinising them, he wondered why his brother made up a boyfriend. Sherlock never needed a romantic relationship or even a friendship. Quite the opposite. Like him, he was rather surly in relationships and avoided, rather than sought, any physical contact with another human being.

This implied an even worse hypothesis: it wasn't a fabrication, and his brother's military boyfriend existed.

Lestrade raised that possibility, and Mycroft initially rejected it out of hand in the face of the very close surveillance he kept Sherlock under.

Not because he didn't trust Sherlock's decision to stay clean. He knew he meant it. But it was also the first time in a long time he faced life without the help of drugs, and he wanted to avoid any possibility of relapse.

And Mycroft was sure his brother hadn't evaded the agents and cameras watching him, which, if he were in a secret relationship, he would have done.

He appreciated Lestrade's sincere concern for Sherlock. He liked the DI from the day he kidnapped him a couple of days after Sherlock first poked his nose into one of his crime scenes. He had just been promoted to DI and not only let his brother in on more cases, but made a habit of taking Sherlock into his house when, drugged up, he was in no condition to go home alone and flatly refused to go to his brother's house.

Since then, he never stopped looking after him and developed a great affection for the young detective, which, Mycroft knew, was mutual, no matter how much Sherlock pretended that he didn't give a damn about the DI by feigning not to remember his first name.

That's why he didn't hesitate to let Sherlock back on the cases after leaving the detox centre. He was sure Lestrade would take care of him.

Mycroft turned his attention back to the list, scanning for any possible details that might link any of these soldiers to Sherlock, but found none. He went over them again and again, without turning up anything.

He pressed the intercom that connected him to Anthea.

"These are all the soldiers deployed in Afghanistan? None of them is missing?"

"No, sir, none. Only those discharged from service who returned to England."

"And why aren't they on this list?" he bellowed, furious.

Anthea did not reply. She knew that telling him that he only asked for those deployed there was pointless; so she got up and, without a word, left the new list on the table, ignoring her boss's angry sigh.

Mycroft carefully read the detailed information on each of them; as in the previous case, he seemed not to find anything useful. Until, in the last soldier's report on the list, a sentence caught his attention.

" _Sister: Harriet Watson. Alcoholic in rehab, admitted by his wife, Claire_ ". Next to it, the name of the institution where she was admitted.

The same one Sherlock had been in.

His eyes rose quickly to meet the picture of a man around his forties, with short, military-style blond hair, tanned skin, and, intelligent blue eyes that looked straight into the camera. He exuded self-assurance and self-confidence, and his genuine smile gave him a friendly, easy-going air, but Mycroft read in his eyes that he could be dangerous if needed.

He was a British Army Doctor who served as a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years ago he was deployed to Afghanistan, where, during an ambush, he was shot in his shoulder.

According to the report, he suffered from PTSD, a limp and an intermittent tremor in his dominant hand, and the wound in his shoulder prevented him from returning to practice as a surgeon. As a result of all that, he was discharged from the army.

He returned to London precisely four months ago.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, amazed by Lestrade's hypothesis accuracy.

He didn't like reading the doctor had multiple relationships with both men and women at the army, and any of them lasted more than a couple of months.

And now he was with Sherlock.

Could he be the cause of his gloomy mood? Perhaps they had sex a couple of times and Sherlock, utterly inexperienced in relationships, fell in love with him. The doctor, realising that the detective wanted more than an occasional shag, broke up with him.

But Sherlock, still in love, (Mycroft shuddered at the thought), hadn't given up hope that they would get back together, hence his insistence to Lestrade and the rest about being in a relationship, something unusual for someone as airtight as Sherlock.

He clenched his fists. If it had been so, he would rip the doctor's heart out.

He tried to calm down and regain his train of thought. It was clear that, if their relationship was real, Sherlock and such Doctor Watson did not see each other during cases, or Lestrade would have seen them.

And when he wasn't involved in a case, Sherlock was with him at home, stuck in the library or at Bart's doing those absurd experiments, with that short, nervous woman at his heels. She didn't realise Sherlock was gay and fell in love with him the first second she saw him, which made her stammer and blush every time she saw or spoke to him. What was her name? Oh, Molly Hooper.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock had indeed been in the hospital because of his coat tracking device.....

His eyes scanned the file again, searching busily for a piece of information he read before and hadn't given any thought to. The soldier trained as a military doctor at St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

There was no doubt about it. That was where they were meeting. 

He closed his eyes, trying to erase the image that just came into his mind of the doctor savagely fucking Sherlock in some hospital hidden room, covering his mouth to muffle his moans, while hammering his huge cock into him with all his might. 

He will kill that bastard. 

The sound of the street door brought him back to reality. Sherlock just returned from his walk, almost at ten o'clock at night.

Mycroft listened to his hesitant, slow footsteps making their way reluctantly to his office and hid the doctor's file under other top-secret documents which Sherlock would not even deign to glance at them.

Sherlock entered his office and approached the desk. Mycroft did not fail to notice the effort he made to remain calm and maintain a nonchalant air that clashed head-on with his body language, unreadable to others, which indicated that his brother was nervous and worried. Very.

"I thought I could to help you with one of your boring cases," he blurted out without preamble. 

Mycroft did not reply. They were playing a chess game with almost the same pieces, as opposed to the superiority they both had when addressing any other human being. And, just as Sherlock was doing, he had to be careful not to let Sherlock see his cards.

So, though he heard perfectly well the lie and anxiety behind Sherlock's apparent jaded tone, he merely waved a hand at a pile of files accumulated on one of the shelves. He had been saving them if Lestrade ran out of cases, and now they came in handy.

Sherlock reached over and picked up the pile of documents, relieved that his brother wasn't paying him the slightest bit of attention. He surely just assumed Lestrade had no more cases to offer him, and he didn't want to give him the chance to get bored.

The detective didn't miss his concerned air, but he knew Mycroft well enough to know that if Lestrade had said anything or if he had the slightest suspicion of what had happened during the case, he would already be bombarding him with questions, instead of acting as he usually did, as if he wasn't there.

When they were children, that attitude bothered him, but, over time, he became comfortable with it. It didn't imply rejection, or anger, or anything like that. It was merely that others' affairs, even those concerning his brother did not spark the slightest interest on him.

Without a word, he left with the cases under his arm and headed for the library, where he could study them quietly and decide where in the world to lose himself. He deserved somewhere inhospitable and dark, for having been such an idiot.

When he was alone, Mycroft pulled out the soldier's file again. He pursed his lips and stared at the man, who, impassive, looked back at him from the photo.

"Very well, Doctor John Hamish Watson. You and I are going to have a long and thoughtful talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the fic structure demanded four chapters instead of three. I hope you don't mind and continue to enjoy the fic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments and kudos!


	3. The man in the wharehouse

John had no longer any doubts. A black car was following him. 

He first saw it early in the morning, when he left from his appointment with Ella, his therapist, but he had too many worries to pay attention to it. 

He wondered what the hell he was still going to therapy for. He was stuck. Although he repeated himself that he had to turn the page, move on, and accept that this was his life now, he couldn't. He felt unable to resign himself to the idea of leaving behind the adrenaline, the danger, the war..., of no longer being the John Watson he once was. 

Ella told him that it was going to take him a while to adjust to civilian life. But four months had already passed, and he achieved nothing. Nor had he found a way to free himself from that memory. 

Ella also advised him to create a blog to help him to make the transition to civilian life, to process what happened. But day after day, when he opened his laptop, he realised he had nothing to say.

He just sat there, still, staring at the cursor, unable to write a single letter, while the anguish dried up his throat, rising from his stomach to tangle in his chest, choking him. His hand shook so violently he had to hold it, until, screaming with rage and frustration, he slammed the laptop shut, holding back the urge to smash it against the wall. 

Nothing ever happened to him. He told Ella a thousand times, but she kept insisting that it would be positive for him. What the hell was he going to write about? About his damned leg that hurt more every day? About the tremor in his hand? About his life still being the same shit as yesterday and the day before yesterday, and every day since the moment a damn snipper decided that a doctor was a perfect target? About becoming even more depressed after returning to London? About not being more than a shadow of his former self anymore?

He wiped away tears of rage and sadness, cursing his leg again. His therapist was sure his limp was psychosomatic, a consequence of PTSD, which would gradually pass. But John didn't sense any change. Well, yes. One. He went from running and jumping across Afghanistan's arid deserts to limping along London's streets with a cane. A remarkable change, he thought bitterly. 

London. He could not afford to stay there much longer. His meagre savings had already evaporated and, with his Army pension, he barely could pay the rent for the miserable room he was staying in. He could not count on Harry's help; she had her own problems; he could look for a flatmate, but... who'd want him for a flatmate? 

But he couldn't leave London. Never. He had to stay there, no matter what, because there was the only thing that helped him to keep a little sanity in the mess that was his life now. 

As he walked along, he gazed in disgust at the explosion of hearts of all shapes sizes and colours surrounding him, the flower shops bursting with red roses and beautiful bouquets, the patisseries with heart-shaped cakes and pies... 

Until then, he always liked Valentine's Day's. Candlelight dinner in a romantic restaurant with your partner, (or in a specially decorated canteen in Afghanistan), gifts, chocolates, cards, cuddles and, of course, sex. An excellent day for flirting and fucking, Valentine's Day. Even more so in Afghanistan, where, away from his father, he could indulge his bisexuality.

But now, John's stomach churned at the sight of all the romantic paraphernalia. Every heart stabbed into him until it almost physically hurt. 

Fortunately, the bloody date was only two days away. Two days and the city would stop to be a reminder of how happy he once was and how lonely and lost he now felt. 

If he could, John would go back to his cubicle and lock himself in there forever. But he couldn't miss his physiotherapy session; even knowing that the hope he went in with would vanish, and he would come out, yet another day, depressed and depressed. Until the day the medical insurance would stop covering his sessions. Then..., a deep and black abyss would open up at his feet.

His thoughts stopped dead in their tracks when, at a zebra crossing, the black sedan braked in front of him, less than half a metre away, forcing him to stop and truly focus on it. 

He waited, but there was not the slightest movement. No one got out of it, no door opened, no window rolled down. Nothing. The car just stood there, silent and motionless. 

Someone was watching him from inside, through the tinted windows. John didn't need to see him; he could feel it. A survival instinct he developed in Afghanistan that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when someone was watching him, at worst through a telescopic sight. 

He turned around and started walking in the opposite direction. He spotted the entrance to Russel Square Park and headed that way, where the car could not follow him. 

As he walked as fast as his leg and cane allowed him, John wondered who might be following him. And why. Those two questions made him uneasy, but not scared. 

Because, John knew it well, you only get scared when you have something to lose. But when you have lost everything, when you wake up every day screaming and shaking with fear, drenched in sweat in the middle of a nightmare. When awake, you realise that reality is even worse than the dream and burst into tears, regretting that the bullet that ent through your shoulder didn't shatter your heart, nothing can scare you. 

Besides, if necessary, he would have no trouble fighting back. It might seem otherwise, because of the cane and the limp, but John still retained much of the strength and fitness he acquired in Afghanistan, as well as the enviable boxing skills he had since childhood. 

John snorted sadly, walking into the park. Ella would be happy. He could write about the mysterious sedan that followed him, undoubtedly driven by a moron who decided it would be fun to scare the man with the cane. The world was full of jerks.

He eased his pace and, calmer, forgot about the car. His mind went back to the money. How on earth would he get enough money to stay in London? He had to stay out there no matter what. He could look for work but... 

John stopped in disbelief, listening to the unmistakable sound of tyres running on gravel. He slowly turned to find that the dark sedan followed him into the park and was right behind him. 

For a moment, John thought it looked slightly different from the one he saw at the zebra crossing, but he didn't have time to analyse it. He heard a whirring sound, and he watched in bewilderment as several cameras, monitoring different areas of the park, turned towards him, focused on him for a few seconds, to return to their original position. 

John muttered a curse. If they thought they could scare him with those cheap spy novel tricks... Furious, he approached the window and banged it hard with his fist.

"Who the hell are you? Why are you following me?" he shouted angrily. 

The tinted window slowly rolled down, revealing the face of a young, attractive, dark-haired woman, who was, typing on her phone, as the driver got out of the car and opened the door. 

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson," she asked in a friendly but firm tone, without deigning to look at him.

This puzzled him. He looked at her, hesitant. 

"How do you know my name?" he asked, in a slightly less threatening tone. 

Who the hell could that be? Maybe it was a joke from someone who knew he was in London? No, he had no friends who could afford such a display of cars and cameras. Maybe a high-ranking army officer? Government? It didn't make sense. What interest would John have for any them?

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson," she repeated, still smiling affably. 

John didn't move. What the hell was that all about? 

"My boss could make some sort of threat, but he is sure your situation is quite clear to you" the woman continued. 

There was no threat in her voice, but the tone made it clear that John didn't have much choice. And she was right. Better to get it over with as soon as possible. He shrugged slightly, as if to himself, and got into the car next to her. 

"Hi, I'm Anthea" she greeted, smiling brightly as if a second before she hadn't been compelling him to get in the car. 

"I'm John." 

"Yes, I know." 

The car started, and John's gaze wandered out the window, racking his brains, wondering who her boss was. The woman's attitude indicated that they didn't plan to harm him, at least for now. 

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" he finally asked. 

"None at all" she replied, keeping the same smile, as the car drove noiselessly through the streets of London. A bit later, it stopped in front of what looked like a warehouse's metallic door. 

It raised, and, while the car drove in, John had the feeling that he was not the first to end up in that place. 

He got out of the car, and looked at the man standing in the middle of the place, dressed in a three-piece suit, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella, his other hand in his pocket, his head slightly cocked, one eyebrow raised. John walked toward him, reluctantly. What moron wore an umbrella indoors?

Mycroft looked at John with narrowed eyes, not moving a muscle, surprised at the relative ease with which Anthea managed to get him into the car. 

But it was clear Doctor Watson loved danger, he thought, pursing his lips angrily, gesturing with his umbrella towards a chair placed opposite him, as he watched John limp towards him, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Have a seat, John," he invited, giving the most pleasant smile he could compose, trying to sound polite. 

A pleasant smile that, John realised, was completely fake. For as much as the man adopted a slightly amiable air, his piercing, cold eyes burned as they bore into him as if he were holding back from lunging at him.

"The leg must be hurting you. Sit down," Mycroft's tone was no longer an invitation, but a firm and dry command. 

He was not used to being blatantly ignored, as the Doctor was doing. No doubt he thought his relationship with Sherlock would protect him from his brother's wrath. Idiot. 

John watched him, somewhere between surprised and amused by the man's absolute faith in his superiority, undoubtedly accustomed to being obeyed without question.

But in the army, John came up against similar guys, authoritarian pricks like his father, who pulled rank at the drop of a hat. He hadn't kowtowed to them then, and he wasn't going to bow to a civilian now. He was good at obeying orders, but only from those he chose to do so.

"I don't wanna sit down," he replied dryly, squaring his shoulders and settling firmly on his feet, making it very clear what his intention was. 

He knew full well that the invitation to sit down had nothing to do with the man's concern for his leg or mere politeness. No, this guy was smart, and he knew that standing while John sat down, he would have a psychological advantage. So he stood there, as the man looked at him curiously as if he expected another attitude from him. 

"You don't seem very afraid" finally said Mycroft, slightly disconcerted. 

Usually, those who entered subdued quickly, frightened by the staging. But it was evident that Doctor Watson was anything but a man easily scared. 

"You don't seem very frightening" replied John. 

The man was used to, once all that paraphernalia was deployed, with his umbrella, the warehouse, car, and cameras, his opponent quickly gave up. 

But John suffered too many setbacks, was too fed up with it all, and was having too bad a day to be intimidated by an - excellent and well thought out, he could deny it - simple staging. 

Mycroft took the blow and chuckled, thinking that, if the bastard wasn't wrecking Sherlock's life, he might even like him. He didn't often meet people who openly stood up to him. 

"Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" he replied, with a slightly mocking edge. 

Without waiting for a reply, he hardened his face and fixed his angry gaze on John. 

When he looked at him through the car's window, he didn't understand what Sherlock could have seen in that short, blond, grumpy, limping soldier. But now, standing before him, upright, defiant, without the slightest trace of fear, he understood it perfectly. 

Despite the cane, despite his hand's tremor, John Watson exuded an air of dominance and strength, yet at the same time loyalty, kindness, nobility and protectiveness that proved irresistible to Sherlock. Not to mention the secret attraction - or so he thought - his brother always felt for uniforms. 

But he wasn't there to analyse the reasons why his brother had fallen in love with Doctor Watson; he was there to solve a problem.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" he asked at last. 

"I don't know any Sherlock Holmes," replied John frowning.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I know no Sherlock Holmes", he repeated, stressing the no.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. He sounded sincere, and it was evident that his patience was wearing thin. 

"Don't play tricks on me, Doctor Watson," hissed Mycroft menacingly.

But, again, it didn't daunt John. 

"Who are you?" he asked, instead.

"An interested party." 

John snorted. The man was a genuine pedant. 

Mycroft watched him closely. He deduced that John answered truthfully, but there was also the possibility that Sherlock warned him about his brother. The doctor had enough intelligence, courage and character to stand up to him. And, looking at his hand, - Mycroft noticed it stopped shaking the moment he stepped out of the car, he knew the doctor was not going to walk away from Sherlock easily. The man, contrary to what his therapist claimed, was not haunted by the war. He missed it. 

So he should attack him on his weakest flank. 

"I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money regularly to ease your way".

John frowned, surprised by the conversation's twist. 

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man".

" _Yeah, sure_ ," John thought. "In exchange for what?" he asked aloud.

"Leave London. For good." 

At those words, John breathed in sharply, a wave of hurt anger boiling inside him, holding back the scream that struggled to get out of his throat. 

"No," he snapped. 

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother. I'm not leaving London" he hissed angrily between his clenched teeth.

"I could end all your troubles. You could have a nice house anywhere in the world, anywhere you choose, and not worry about money for...". 

"No. This conversation is over. I'm not interested in your damn money. I do not have the slightest intention of leaving London." 

"Why, Doctor Watson?"

"That's my business," he muttered with a hint of bitterness that Mycroft did not fail to notice.

Mycroft ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, annoyed. The short man's stubbornness was stupidly infuriating. 

"Listen to me carefully, Doctor Watson..." he started in an openly menacing tone. 

But John didn’t listen to him. Instead, he slowly leaned his cane on the chair and, without a limp, walked until he stood several inches from Mycroft and, stared at him, his hands clenched into fists. 

"No, no, you listen to me, you jerk because I'm only going to tell you once. I never want to see you again. Not you, not your goddamn car, not your cameras. Never" he growled in a dangerous tone, underlining each sentence with a sharp jab of his index finger on the chest of a shocked Mycroft. "And in case you have the slightest doubt because you're proving to be quite obtuse, you can shove your money up your arse along with the umbrella for all I care. Do I make myself clear?"

John's thunderous shout echoed through the walls of the warehouse, forcing Mycroft to resort to all his coolness to keep from retreating, in front of a mad John who was shaking with restrained fury. And, though Mycroft was a head taller than him, he did not doubt that, if he pressed him a thousandth more, the doctor would not hesitate to beat him into leaving him alone. 

In any case, he didn't need to continue the conversation. The man didn't know Sherlock. But then Mycroft was back to square one. Who on earth was Sherlock's boyfriend? 

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. He had been an idiot. Sherlock tricked him. He knew Lestrade would break his promise and call him, and all he told about his boyfriend was false. Maybe he even glanced at John's file, knowing Mycroft would follow his sister's clue. 

The cases. That was what Sherlock was after. And he, like an idiot, gave him the perfect alibi to meet his boyfriend somewhere out of his control radius in that stupid Valentine's Day. 

He was going to kill Sherlock.

His attention returned to John, who was still in the same place, glaring coldly at him, breathing angrily through his flaring nostrils. As much as it bothered Mycroft to admit it, the doctor scared him.

"Anthea will take you home," he offered in a conciliatory tone. 

"I made it clear that I don't want anything to do with you," John grunted.

Without further ado, he turned around, picked up his cane, and limping briskly and furiously, walked out of the warehouse, silently cursing his hand, that started shaking again. Fuck. He didn't know who the hell that bloody Sherlock Holmes was, but he hoped never meet him. 

He went out into the street. He had no idea where he was, and as he walked away from the warehouse, the whole interview seemed unreal. Who the hell was this man? And why was he so insistent in making him leave London? Damn it all!

After walking several blocks, he found a tube station; once in the carriage, John dropped heavily into the seat, breathing a sigh of relief at being able to rest his leg. He leaned his head back, feeling his heart pounding hard in his chest. 

John closed his eyes tightly, trying to hold back the tears, wondering when life would give him a bloody break. So far, since the ambush, it had done nothing but rage against him. Even when it seemed not to. 

A couple of hours later, he finally arrived at his room and closed the door firmly behind him. He picked up a bottle of whisky from the drawer desk and poured a shot into a mug. 

He sat down on the bed. A second later, he got up and opened the drawer again, taking out his laptop and his army gun. After checking the clip, he left it on the table. He wasn't sure he wouldn't get another visit from the warehouse man. 

John sat on the chair and opened his laptop. His blog appeared, just as empty as the day he created it. He took a sip and frowned. He was about to close the laptop, but then, he put the mug aside and started writing down what happened in the warehouse, without stopping until he came to the man's sentence:

_"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"_

He paused, thoughtful. He was sure he never heard of him. Such a name was not easy to forget. But it was evident, whoever he was, that was important to the man. More so. Someone he wanted to protect at all costs, no matter if he had to intimidate or bribe a potential danger. Like him. Why he had considered him a threat was something he would never know. Nor did he want to know.

John tried to go back to writing, but he found it hard to concentrate on the story again. He snapped his lips, upset. He had to admit he was intrigued, so he opened a search engine and typed in the name. 

The first entry that came up was a website called The Science of Deduction, where this Sherlock Holmes classified more than two hundred types of ashes. And not only that. The man claimed he could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. 

He snorted, incredulous, and looked for the personal information section. There wasn't much there, just that he worked as a consultant to a certain DI Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, a phone number and a tiny photo. 

He stared at it, unable to believe his eyes. 


	4. Green ladder to heaven

Sherlock nibbled reluctantly at his toast. He wasn't hungry, but Mycroft threatened not to let him go to meet Lestrade if he didn't finish his breakfast. And after two days locked in his room, confused, frightened, and depressed, he needed to get out of there any way he could. 

He didn't understand what happened to Mycroft. When Sherlock came back from rehab, he was as understanding and tolerant as he was capable of, and, as much as it bothered him to admit it, his brother had been a great support to him. 

But everything changed the day after he gave him the cases. After returning from work, a livid Mycroft entered the library, and without a word, snatched the case he had in his hands, picked up the rest Sherlock left on the table, and growling an angry " _forget about going anywhere_ ", ordered him to go up to his room and stay there. 

When lost and angry, he opened his mouth to protest, Mycroft came out slamming the door so hard it startled him. Bewildered, hurt and angry, he went up to his room. Challenging a pissed off Mycroft was not smart. 

But it didn't stop there. He ordered his agents to hack into his phone and computer, something that made him frantic. Not the hacking itself. He had well protected the files he didn't want anyone snooping around, and in the improbable event that those inept managed to crack his passwords, they would find them impossible to decrypt. But he hated the chaos that ensued in his files and having to put up with their stupid jokes about his website's articles. 

The worst was when, the next day, Mycroft personally - something he never did before - entered his room and began to search it. Without a word, he madly rifled through his drawers, wardrobes and pockets, also through his folders, books and notes, making them fly around the room. Mycroft ignored his questions about what was going on, his beggings for him to stop; even when, desperate and teary-eyed insisted over and over again that he wasn't taking anything, that he was clean. 

"One more stupid thing and I'll send you to Mum and Dad's," he threatened before leaving, repeating the slamming of the library door. 

Sherlock froze. He didn't even want to think about that possibility. His mother was a thousand times more controlling than Mycroft. She wouldn't let him breathe, she would treat him like a child, and won't let him go around solving cases. 

But every time he asked Mycroft, or tried to figure out what was wrong with him, the only answer he got was that hurt, angry _you-know-what-I-mean_ look. 

And it was usually like that. Sherlock learned to read behind Mycroft's impenetrable mask, but now he found it inscrutable, which made him even more uneasy. 

The only logical explanation was that Mycroft thought he was using again. But he should know that it was impossible. His agents, followed Sherlock everywhere since he arrived, and the tracking device on his coat showed him that he had not been to any of the alleys he frequented. Alleys that he now missed badly. 

His therapist warned him the day before he left the centre that he would encounter many moments when he would feel the craving again. But he never thought it would be so soon, or the turmoil of feelings he would have to deal with, or that Mycroft would be one of his problems. It had been a long time since he felt so lost and sunk. 

The fake boyfriend hadn't caused Mycroft's anger; he was sure of that. He texted Lestrade, and he swore to him he hadn't spoken to his brother. Greg wouldn't lie to him. After everything they'd been through together, he trusted him one hundred per cent. 

All this led him to accept the case the DI had reluctantly offered him that morning. Even though it was Valentine's Day and he knew he would have to face all the cruel jibes and taunts that awaited him.

Hurtful as they were, they would be nothing compared to Mycroft's disappointed and angry silence, a silence that, his brother knew well, he could not bear. Why did he treat him so? Why did his silence, his disappointment, hurt him so much? What the hell was happening to him? If even the thought of confronting the Yards was a bit of a turn-off. 

He would tell them that what he said was an experiment to determine if they were stupid enough to believe he had a boyfriend and was looking forward to a romantic Valentine's Day, with a heart-shaped cake, candlelight dinner, kissing and sex. 

He covered his face with his hands, embarrassed and horrified; deep down, that was precisely what he wished. He, who had a rash thinking about romance, who had trouble shaking hands and hadn't thought about sex since puberty... he would have given anything to have someone to love. What the hell was happening to him? The whole thing started to scare him. 

He never felt any particular interest in anyone, much less romantic interest. And even if he had, he would never have let them know. Who would want to love a freak?

Sometimes, he wondered if it could be a strange side effect of detoxification. He read hundreds of manuals during those two days of seclusion, looking for an answer, a clue. He couldn't ask anyone. Mycroft would find out the next second. 

Sherlock hesitated to throw the rest of his breakfast out of the window but feared that Mycroft, whom he already heard shouting over the phone a couple of times that morning, would forbid him to leave. Trying to sneak out of the window was out of the question. Not only because Mycroft made sure that the locks were Sherlock Holmes-proof; he would find him in the blink of an eye, even without a tracking device. And there was a chance that he would lock him up, this time for good. 

He swallowed it as best he could, showered, dressed in black suit and shirt, put on his coat, hurried off and hailed a cab before Mycroft decided to stop him.

In the dining room, Mycroft sighed, hiding his face behind his hands, dejected. He shouldn't have been so hard on Sherlock. He knew he was telling the truth when he repeated over and over again that he hadn't used again, and his brother's puzzled hurt expression broke his heart.

But he couldn't help it. Mycroft knew Sherlock kept something from him. And not being able to deduce it, was driving him mad, mostly because he knew Sherlock was scared. And that he had a secret, whether it was the supposed boyfriend or something else, a month after leaving the centre, was worrying.

He didn't want Sherlock to relapse, as in previous detoxes. He couldn't take it. Not this time. Too many years of not knowing when he would get the next call from the hospital; too many nights running down alleys or drugs hen to find him out, too many hateful lists of everything he took. Too long fearing that each call could be the last. And now, just when it seemed on the verge of succeeding, everything faltered again. 

The worst was that maybe he, trying to protect him, pushed Sherlock into it. And now, Mycroft felt as lost as his brother. 

Lestrade rubbed his face, nervous. When he called Sherlock to offer him the case, he was convinced he will turn it down. Not just because it did not even reach zero on the Sherlock Holmes' scale. The detective knew Donovan and the rest were sharpening their fangs to rip him to shreds as soon as he arrived. It was the first time he noticed a general glee knowing Sherlock would come at any moment. 

If it had been a crime scene, at least the circle would have been limited to Donovan, Anderson and a few other agents. Still, the case was so straightforward that they could solve it from his office, where Sherlock would appear within minutes. And he would know Lestrade betrayed him as soon as he laid eyes on him. Fuck. Why did he call Mycroft? And why Sherlock insisted on coming just that day? He didn't even want to imagine the pitched battle that was coming. 

A murmur of derisive and malicious chuckles announced the detective's arrival. He raised his head, watching him strode briskly towards his office, his head held high, his impassive gesture laced with a few drops of disdain, his gaze fixed on Lestrade's office. He looked like his usual self, but something was wrong. Sherlock shied away from the Yards' stares, feigning disdain, instead of glaring defiantly at them, as he usually did. 

"Well, Freak, we are waiting. When are you going to introduce us to your boyfriend?" asked Donovan, causing more giggles around the office. 

"Yeah, tell us what he gave you," another of the Yards added. 

"Unless he suddenly became an astronaut and landed on the Moon, from where he can't call," scoffed Anderson amid more derisive chuckles. 

"Where is he taking you for dinner?" scoffed Dimmock "Romantic restaurants for lonely psychopathic freaks nobody loves and their imaginary partners?"

The laughter was brutal. Sherlock, who was about to enter Lestrade's office, stopped in the doorway, bewildered. The blow hit him squarely, so much so that he felt tears welling up in his eyes. He had to fight back; he had to stop it before his shaky walls collapsed utterly. 

Lestrade slowly rose from his chair, watching the detective turn in a graceful, slow, studied movement that reminded him of a black panther, beautiful and lethal, moments before leaping at his prey, calculating the perfect angle to land directly on its jugular. The detective's hurt and furious look left no room for doubt. This was going to end very badly.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Sherlock." 

Everyone froze, staring at the short, strong, blond man in military fatigues who just burst into the room. In his left hand, holding a cane, he had two big red heart-shaped balloons and in his right hand a huge heart-shaped box of a Sacher tart. 

Donovan watched him, intrigued, then smiled contemptuously. The freak could stick it to Anderson by hiring someone to pretend to be his date, but not to her. She shot a mocking glance at the rest of her companions and turned to Sherlock, but her rant stuck in her throat. The freak's expression of horror could not be faked. 

Sherlock watched the man, petrified. Not because of the balloons, not because of the cake, not because he was, obviously, someone the Yards hired to keep on mocking him. 

What scared him was that this guy reminded him of the blurred image he saw in his fantasies, uniform included; as if Donovan and the rest penetrated the innermost recesses of his brain. He rubbed his face in despair. At any other time he would have sworn it was impossible, but with what had been happening to him the last few months ..... How....?

He frowned. Lestrade. It had to be him. How could he have betrayed him like that? 

He felt himself crumbling, the cracks in the walls that always protected him growing larger. He breathed in hard, trying to hold back the anguish and the urge to cry, but the air didn't get into his lungs. He had to get out of there.

Lestrade stared at the man, gaping, then at Sherlock, worried. The detective was trembling, looking at the soldier as if he were an apparition. It must surely be someone working for Mycroft. True, he couldn't imagine Mycroft ordering someone to buy heart-shaped balloons and a heart-shaped cake (Sherlock's favourite), but.... 

John let out the breath he was holding, strangely relieved when, diving back into Sherlock's incredibly, impossibly intelligent blue-green eyes, he didn't find the slightest glint of recognition in them. 

But he was disconcerted to see him standing there, staring at him with that anguish that he was trying his best to conceal, without succeeding. For a fraction of a second, it seemed Sherlock was about to burst into tears. Then he drew in a sharp intake of breath and, without a word, strode out of the room, almost running.

John cursed between his teeth. He hoped on the way to NSY that their meeting would be different. For a second, he felt like the most idiotic man on earth, there, planted with balloons of hearts in one hand, and a ridiculous cake in another, dressed in his fatigues, the centre of the Yard's shocked looks and the worried surprise of who surely was DI Lestrade. 

"Sherlock, wait!" he shouted, dropping everything on Donovan's desk, cane included, and running after him down the corridor. 

His shout woke Lestrade. Sherlock's angry, hurt, betrayed look paralysed him. He knew it was him who had gone off the deep end with Mycroft. Shit. But he didn't understand why the man ran after the detective. He glanced at the cane, and, worried, ran after him. 

"I'm not missing this," laughed Donovan, mockingly, and with Anderson and a few others, followed Lestrade. 

Sherlock entered the lift, breathing hard, struggling to get air into his lungs. What the hell what was going on? What was happening to him? He frantically pressed the button to close the doors when he saw the man approaching at full speed. Fuck, hadn't he humiliated him enough?

He stepped out of the elevator, pushed hard at the door leading to the stairs, and began to descend rapidly; His long legs would give him a considerable advantage over the short guy. 

"I don't care how fast you run with those ridiculously long legs!".

The soldier's shout made him stagger, and only his agility saved him from rolling down the rest of the steps. His emotions, always controlled, went wild as he ran down the stairs, panic flooding his brain. He, always guided by logic and reason, caught himself fearing the man could read his mind. He was going mad. 

He took out his phone to call Higgins. One shot, just one, to make everything go back to normal, stop feeling, stop fearing, hide, and escape from everything. 

"I will have no trouble finding you at the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery!!!!!" he heard the man shout, getting closer to him. 

That made Sherlock stop in his tracks. It was impossible. No one in the world knew that this was one of his favourite hiding places when he felt scared, sad or wanted to be alone. No one except Mycroft, of course. 

Angry and frightened, he turned around and strode up the stairs until he reached the landing where his pursuer awaited him. Seizing the momentum of the climb, he pounced on him and slammed him against the wall.

"Who are you?" he bellowed menacingly "How the hell do you know that?". 

Lestrade pursed his lips and hurried down the steps at Sherlock's shout. He stopped watching them forging across the landing, astounded when the soldier easily disengaged himself from the detective and hold him against the wall. 

John paused for a moment, panting. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock, just to get him to calm down a little, but the detective was beside himself, writhing with all his might to get loose from him. 

"Just like I know that every time you take drugs, you write on a piece of paper for your brother, or that you have a fucking Mind Palace. Because you told me." 

Sherlock choked back a sob, panicking. He was losing his mind. He never forgot a face before.

"I never saw you before in my life," he muttered hoarsely.

Lestrade, noticing the panic in his voice, came up behind John and wrapped his right arm around the man's neck, his other hand behind his head, trying to get him to let go of Sherlock. But the man did not loosen his grip on the detective. 

John cursed through his teeth. He could easily get rid of the man holding him by the neck, but beating up a DI at NSY headquarters wouldn't be the smartest thing to do. 

"Four months ago you were admitted to Bart's with a gunshot wound. It wasn't serious, but you were hight on drugs and scared the staff who were treating you. You made such a fuss that Mike Standford, who was in charge of A&E that day, decided to move you to a newly opened wing, near the physiotherapy wards," he said hurriedly. 

Sherlock looked at him, a little calmer. He remembered that, or better said, Lestrade's sovereign annoyance at the hospital, which paled beside his brother's. 

Lestrade loosened a bit his grip on the man. That was exactly how it happened. That afternoon, if it hadn't been for that doctor, Sherlock would have been kicked out of the hospital.

He gesticulated angrily at Donovan, Anderson and several Yards who stopped on the floor above and were leaning out of the alcove to listen, ordering them to leave. Which, naturally, they didn't. 

"When you arrived, I was with Mike. We were mates at Bart's, and I wanted him to take a look at my leg, that was hurting pretty bad. As I was a military doctor, he thought I could better deal with you and asked me to come and check you out. When I arrived, you were calm, and just asked for my phone to send a message, because you lost yours". 

Sherlock blinked, surprised. It was true that, when he came back from the hospital, he didn't have his phone. He never knew what had happened to it until Mycroft gave it back to him. But listening to the man, the image of a furious Mycroft snatching the phone from his hand as he entered the ambulance emerged from the mists of his brain. 

"You texted something about a green ladder." 

Lestrade let go of the man, surprised, remembering the message Sherlock sent him from a number he didn't know: " _If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH_ ".

"I didn't send any text from the hospital," rebutted Sherlock.

But the reference to the green ladder stirred something in the depths of his brain. He closed his eyes and went into his Mental Palace, rummaging around for the connection to those words. 

Lestrade, puzzled, noticed that the man, instead of finding Sherlock's behaviour bizarre, slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and placed it in the detective's hand, gently stroking it with his fingertips as he did so. 

Sherlock snapped his eyes open. That was the caress he missed so much; the touch of those calloused fingers on his skin he longed for, the warmth of the body he missed at night... How the hell...? 

"When you wrote the message, you gave my phone back to me, and you told me…"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" blurted out Sherlock and stared into the man's eyes. 

John closed his eyes, feeling the same shiver running down his spine as the first time he heard that deep, velvety, sonorous voice asking him that question. He swallowed the lump in his throat, hopeful and scared in equal parts. 

"And I told you... Sorry?" he muttered, feeling his heart pounding hard in his chest. 

"Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?" answered Sherlock, blinking rapidly. 

Suddenly, a flood of fuzzy memories he didn't know he had, broke into his mental palace. 

"Oh, God," he muttered and, to Lestrade's and Yards' astonishment, he threw himself into John's arms, who hugged him tightly, laughing and crying at the same time, still not totally believing that, at last, he had Sherlock back in his arms. 

"I can't believe I found you....."

"John, John, John" Sherlock whispered between sobs. 

He smiled through his tears and pushed him away, whipping the detective's tears gently with his thumbs. 

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhh, it's all right, now it's all right." 

Sherlock shook his head, then nodded, laughing and crying at the same time. Yes, all was alright. At last, it all made sense. At last, as the memory of those two days, he spent with John in the hospital reemerged from the depths of his brain and he understood why he had felt so alone, why he missed having someone by his side, his touch, his voice.... 

He remembered the shiver that ran through him when he felt the touch of John's fingers; the attraction they immediately felt for each other. He saw them laughing together foolishly at something, then staring at each other and losing himself in the other's gaze for a few moments, until John leaned in. They kissed softly, slowly, shyly and incredulously at first, passionately afterwards. 

From then on, half-voiced confessions Sherlock never made to anyone before. Sometimes both sitting on the floor of the room, leaning against the wall. Sometimes on the narrow hospital bed, both lying side by side; sometimes just looking at each other, others kissing and others fucking, John's strong hand covering his mouth to prevent his moans from being heard throughout the hospital. 

On the second day, when the doctor told Sherlock he would be discharged next day, they spent the whole afternoon making plans, until a nurse sent John away, claiming that visiting hours were over, indifferent to the detective's threats. 

Sherlock held John's hands, looking at him, sad and guilty. 

"John, the flat!" he muttered, "Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry, I... didn't know... I didn't remember...". 

"It wasn't your fault," John reassured him, tenderly stroking his cheek with his thumb. 

"The flat?" repeated Lestrade. 

"When we knew Sherlock was going to be discharged, we started making plans. We would rent a flat and move in together if..."

"If I agreed to go to a detox centre" finished the detective, sounding embarrassed.

John smiled, and both kissed softly. 

"But, the next day, when I arrived, the room was empty. Even worse, no one seemed to know anything about William, the patient admitted there."

"William?"

"That was the name on your bracelet, William H. It would have been a lot easier to find you if Sherlock had turned up, believe me" he frowned. "Your name is Sherlock now? You chuckled every time I called you William, but…" 

The detective rolled his eyes. 

"I'm Sherlock. My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but my brother always fills out forms with my first name, claiming Sherlock isn't 'official'. 

John snorted. Then he lowered his head and became serious, struck by the bitterness of the memory. 

"No one seemed to remember you were there. Even your file mysteriously disappeared from the archives. Like if you vanished into thin air. It was crazy. Even Mike didn't have any more information about you. It was so impossible that I sometimes wondered if it wasn't all a figment of my mind. Only the text of the phone confirmed to me that you were real". 

Sherlock felt an immense sadness come over him, reading in John's eyes all his despair, the bitterness, the loneliness, the pain, the betrayal...

"When Mycroft came for me the next day, I didn't remember anything," he explained, crestfallen, "It was like... it was like those two days didn't exist. I had a memory of walking into the hospital and then of Mycroft coming to get me. But nothing else. I swear to you. I would never have..."

"I know. Not at first. Then I thought you'd decided you didn't want anything more to do with me, that you hadn't dared to tell me and you left. it was not so far-fetched; who would want to be with me?" John said bitterly. 

"Me. I just wanted to be with you, but I didn't..." replied Sherlock, frightened at the thought of losing him again. 

John smiled and squeezed his hands reasuringly. 

"Three days later, even though I almost gave up hope, I decided to ask about you one last time. If I didn't find out anything, I would move on. But a resident came to talk to me. He was anxious and frightened. He took care of you because the rest of the doctors and nurses didn't want to do it anymore. He told me that you scared him so much that he gave you a very potent sedative, which, combined with the drugs you took..."

"It produced total temporary amnesia of what happened during the two days of the medication's effects...." mused the detective. His face hardened "When I find him..". 

John shook his head. 

"No. You won't do anything to him." 

Sherlock looked at him in surprise at the doctor's authoritative tone, as did Lestrade and the rest. 

"Thanks to him, I understood everything. He also told me that it wasn't the first time he saw you in the hospital, that you frequently went to A&E because you didn't have the slightest self-preservation spirit. So, since then, I have been going to the hospital every day in the hope of finding you. I have been in rehab for four months because of you," he joked with tears in his eyes. 

"For four months? For me?" asked Sherlock, amazed, swallowing the lump in his throat with difficulty. 

John nodded, smiling.

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't live without you," he whispered, trying to hold back tears, at the memory of how he nearly went mad with despair, with grief, with rage.

Sometimes, at night, in the solitude of his flat, he wondered if he wasn't losing his mind; if it had all been nothing more than a dream. And every day he told himself there was no point in continuing that fruitless search. He was stuck. Although he repeated himself that he had to turn the page, move on. And he couldn't get rid of the memory of the kisses, of Sherlock's smell, of the taste of his lips, of his voice, of how happy he had been with him for those two days.... 

To give him some rationality and an excuse to return to the hospital every day, he forced himself to resume physiotherapy on his shoulder and leg. He hated it, but the hope with which he entered the hospital each day was the only thing that kept him alive, the only thing that allowed him some sanity in the madness that was his life at the time. 

"Have you really been trying to find the freak for four months? People usually run away from him," Donovan's bewildered voice echoed down the stairwell. 

"Call him that again, and it will be you who will end up in A&E" John growled menacingly, while Sherlock lowered his head, smirking delighted. 

"And how..., how did you know I was here?" he asked at last. 

John's expression turned stormy. 

"Long story." He simply said.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't care. He just wanted to be with him. He couldn't stop caressing him, hugging him, kissing him, feeling him, noticing how the sadness that was with him since he left the detox centre, the weight that suffocated him for months, the fear, the loneliness, vanished as he plunged into John's bright blue eyes. 

"Are we leaving?" he asked. 

John nodded. 

"Wait, I have to get the cake." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

"The cake? What for? Oh.... ", he replied, blushing deeper, noticing a sudden heat and his cock shuddering. 

John grinned mischievously. 

"Wait here!" he shouted, ascending the steps two at a time, grinning mockingly at the still awestruck Yards, as he passed them. 

"What the hell is with the cake?" asked Lestrade. 

"I don't remember why we talked about Valentine's Day. He said he would come here with some balloons and a cake, to show everyone that he was in love with me. I laughed and told him if he was capable, I would suck ..."

"I don't want to know it" Lestrade cut him off, still shocked by the events, still unable to believe that Sherlock was...., in love? Mycroft was going to have a fit when he found out. 

As he came downstairs, happily carrying the cake, John's smile faded. He didn't want to take Sherlock to his horrible, depressing flat. And he knew an ex-addict fresh out of rehab wouldn't live alone.

Sherlock looked at him and smiled. 

"Don't worry about it. Come on." 

Both dashed down the stairs, exultant and smiling, while Lestrade, shaking his head, pulled out his phone. 

"Where are we going?" asked John on the street, as Sherlock hailed a cab.

"The night before I left the hospital, I contacted Mrs Hudson. I met her on a case; she said she would be happy to rent us one of her flats. She is with her sister now so that we will be alone there.". 

John frowned. 

"So you don't have the key then." 

"I have something much quicker and more effective." 

John watched him, lost, as Sherlock looked at him smugly. He didn't care, anyway, as long as he was quick or he would start undressing him in the cab, which, before long, pulled up at 221 Baker Street. 

Sherlock jumped out of the cab, and, as John paid, pulled a lock-pick from his pocket. With a quick, trained movement, he opened the door. John followed him upstairs, waiting, impatiently for the detective to open B's door. 

When he finally achieved opening it, John lunged at Sherlock, slamming him against the wall, as he did in NYS. He looked at him for a tenth of a second, licking his lips, then kissed him. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, melting in John rough kiss, in his tongue licking his bottom lip. The detective parted his lip, allowing him in; his legs wobbled when he sucked his tongue. His moans, soft at first, got louder when John's hands grabbed his ass, then went up to his waist and, with a firm tug, pulled his shirt out of his trousers. 

John pulled away, looking at Sherlock his pupils dilated, feeling his cock hardening in his trousers. 

"Too many clothes" he growled, tugging hard at Sherlock's coat until he managed to get it off, throwing it across the room, as the detective let himself be done, noticing his cock throbbing with each tug. 

"Fuck" John grunted again, as he saw the jacket, which he also unceremoniously got rid of, and then, with another strong tug, ripped the detective's shirt, eliciting a groan from Sherlock as his body arched in pleasure. 

John grabbed Sherlock's hair, pulled his head back, and trailed open-mouth hot, anxious kisses and bites against his jaw and neck, intoxicated as he breathed again the smell of his body, which he had missed so much.

Sherlock moaned, shuddering at his touch, trying to focus in all the sensations of John's hands, lips and skin against him, eager to caress his strong back again, his muscular abs; to run over every millimetre of his skin with his fingertips, lips and tongue, creating goosebumps in his way. John pinned the detective's hands against the wall, as he licked and nibbled at his neck again, while Sherlock struggled weakly, but only got a mischievous laugh from the doctor. 

"You clearly still don't remember much of the things you told me about you" he murmured in his ear, licking his ear shell, making Sherlock going limp in the wall, even more so when John's hard cock rubbed against his through their trousers. 

He groaned, unable to say anything, feeling John's teasing smile as he gently nibbled on his collar bone, remembering their conversations in the hospital. 

"That's unfair" he panted, rescuing the vague memory that the mixture of drugs and sedative made him quite talkative, though he couldn't remember most of what he said. 

John's smile widened. 

"Better for me," he said, launching into licking his nipple, making Sherlock moan loudly, moving his hips to meet John's cock again. 

The doctor took a step back. He breathless looking down at the detective, at his lips red from kissing, white skin full of hickeys, body trembling, eyes closed, curls tousled, lips half-open, his cock so erect inside his trousers it must hurt...

Slowly, he began to unbutton his uniform jacket, watching Sherlock's eyes glisten as he followed the movement of his hands. He left it open, while Sherlock groaned wantonly at the sight of his skin. 

"John......" mused the detective. 

"Yes..."

"Please..."

John chuckled. 

"Not yet." 

"I hate you." 

He walked over to Sherlock, unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers, running his hands over his hips, then stroking his cock over the black underwear, running his fingers over it, down to the tip, wet with Sherlock's precum.

"Oh, God." 

"I thought you wanted cake." 

Sherlock nodded vigorously. John kissed him on the lips and looked around. The flat was empty, except for a large kitchen table. He climbed onto it and stretched out, palming his erection through his trousers. Sherlock, his eyes fixed in the impressive bulge, set the cake down on the edge of the table, hopped up, and crawled up to his waist. 

John tried to catch him to pull him to him and kiss him, but Sherlock dodged him. He gently stroked his already hard cock through his trousers, while John breathed in and threw his head back slightly, groaning softly. Sherlock removed John's and his shoes and socks. Slowly, he pulled down John's pants and boxers, with a mischievous grin, that turned hungry when John's cock sprang out of his briefs, hard, big, red and glistening with precum. He brought his mouth to the tip, and gently brushed it with the end of his tongue, barely touching it, just enough to collect a few drops of precum. 

"Sherlock….", groaned John, a hint of warning in his voice. 

The detective chuckled and opened the cake. He took a small piece and spread it across his lips until they were smeared with chocolate. Then bent over John, leaving his mouth millimetres from his. John stuck out his tongue and, with the tip, slowly traced that cupid bow on his upper lip that drove him so crazy, slowly cleaning off the chocolate and raspberry, and then running over the lower lip with small licks, until it was spotless. 

Sherlock smiled and took another good slice of cake, kneading it in his hands and then smearing it over John's nipples. With his open hand, he traced a path of chocolate from the base of his John's jaw, down his neck, chest, belly, to just inches from his groin. John writhe beneath him, his hands firmly anchored on the edges of the table so as not to move them, his breathing quickened as Sherlock's hand moved to his groin, only to growl, frustrated when the detective stopped. 

Watching him intently, he crawled up to him again and began to lick his neck, in big long licks, from his ear lobe through the tendon to his collarbone, until it was clean and shiny with saliva. 

He moved slightly and sucked his nipples, hardening them, all the time avoiding contact with John's hard cock, that twitched with every lick until there was no rest of chocolate on them. 

John grunted, about to explode, when Sherlock's tongue slowly traversed his chest, following the chocolate pad. He gave a couple of quick licks on the red tip of John's cock, and moved down, ignoring it, smearing John's thighs with chocolate and licking them, his tongue millimetres from John's balls, never touching them. 

"Sherlock, I will kill you.......," moaned John, who felt his cock about to explode, his body burning with desire for the detective, determined to jump on him.

Sherlock, grinning mischievously, took another good slice of cake, kneaded it again and smeared John's cock it with chocolate, his hands moving slowly up and down the shaft, stroking his balls and running it back to the tip.

"Jesus Sherlock..." moaned John. 

The contrast of Sherlock's soft hands and the small roughness of the chocolate sliding smoothly over the skin drove him crazy. He melted with each pass of the detective's hands, shuddering as he rubbed his thumb over the slit, enjoying Sherlock's hungry smile, intoxicated by the smell of chocolate and the desire he read in the detective's eyes. 

Sherlock bent over John's cock, inhaling deeply, recovering the forgotten memories the smell brought back. He swallowed the head, enjoying John's hard grunt, his body shivering when John's hands grabbed his hair, pulling a bit, as he slid his tongue up John's length, licking the chocolate, devouring it along with his cock. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, lost in the feeling of the hot, huge, rock hard cock between his lips; in the mixed taste of precum, chocolate and raspberries, stretching his lips as he swallowed down John's cock, delighted with his groans and hisses, his hips twitching, pressing his cock against the back of his throat. 

John felt himself coming, at the brutal, sensual mix of sensations that Sherlock's soft, swollen lips and chocolate gave him, as he gently moved up and down his cock, moaning harder when Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head, the orgasm tickling in his abdomen. 

He needed badly to fuck him. He grunted in frustration. They had nothing to lubricate Sherlock with. 

"In my coat," articulated the detective haltingly, not taking John's cock out of his mouth. 

"You carry a tube of lube everywhere you go?"

Sherlock huffed, exasperated, making John's hips bucked savagely. He pulled his cock out of his mouth. 

"Aloe vera," he said as if it clarified anything. 

Tightening the grip on Sherlock's hair, John tugged his head up and down. Sherlock sucked harder, his cock about to explode as John's strong hands guiding his head, pushing his cock further and further down his throat, making him moan with pleasure, as he sucked with relish. 

"Fuck” John groaned while Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder, tracing devilish paths with his tongue on it. "I forgot how good you were at this" he moaned, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Sherlock bent down to pick up his coat from the kitchen floor and gave it to John, who frantically searched for the tube of aloe vera. If it were natural, with no additives, it would make a perfect lubricant. And knowing how posh and fussy Sherlock was about his delicate skin, it would be the purest on earth. 

"Turn around," he ordered breathlessly. 

Sherlock pivoted around John's cock, not taking it out of his mouth, the tip of his tongue running along the base of the crown in a circular motion that made John's eyes roll. He had to resort to all his self-control, more so when the detective's fabulous ass was in front of his face. 

"Christ, Sherlock," he moaned, "This is not going to last if you keep doing that". 

Sherlock chuckled derisively and cupped and caressed John's balls, who let out a moaned chuckled. He ripped Sherlock's pants, dipped his fingers in the aloe and slowly began to rub it into Sherlock's rim. With his other hand, he took some cake and spread it over Sherlock's balls and perineum.

The detective moaned hard on John's cock, feeling John's finger entering inside him. His breath hitched when he pushed it deeper, fighting to keep the rhythm sucking John's cock, his moans vibrating along it, making John shiver. 

The doctor took his finger out and pushed two inside, giving little licks to Sherlock's balls, enjoying how the detective shuddered and squirmed, trying both to avoid the sensation and to impale himself further on them. 

Sherlock moaned loudly, pulling John's cock out of his mouth, as the dripping tip of his cock brushed against John's chest through the fabric of his underwear, while John curled his fingers a bit, searching for his prostate, letting his thumb teased his perineum softly. He jerked hard when John finally reached his prostate; John's other hand pinning him down, while Sherlock moaned hard, the rhythm of the blowjob totally lost. 

John chuckled, smugly, pulling his fingers out to shove in three. Sherlock's body arched, letting go of John's cock, moaning hard, rocking his hips into the touch, as John thrust his fingers into him, rubbing his prostate, stopping just as he noticed that Sherlock was about to come. 

"God, John" Sherlock grunted agonisingly. 

John pushed him up off him. They stood facing each other, both with stiff, angry red, dripping hard cocks ready to explode. 

John jumped to the floor and motioned Sherlock to sit on the table, kissing him eagerly, the detective lost in the avalanche of hungry lips, tongue and teeth until he lay on his back. 

John pulled him down with a jerking motion until his ass was on the edge of the table. He lifted and parted Sherlock's legs and, with one hard thrust, shoved his cock all the way in, growling at the feeling of Sherlock's warm, tight body around his cock. 

Sherlock let out a choked pleasure cry; John waited a few moments, letting the detective catch his breath and get accustomed to him. 

He moaned with the sudden movement of John's cock inside of him as he pulled out before slamming back in, making the table shook violently. 

And then, nothing. 

"John… god, fuck me…..". 

Nothing. 

"John… please….." moaned Sherlock, desperate. 

John chuckled, pulled him to a sitting position and lifted him off the table, his hands firmly grabbing Sherlock's ass. 

"Your... your shoulder," Sherlock groaned, hugging him tightly, feeling like he could cum at the next twitch of John's cock inside him as he walked. 

"I have been doing rehab for four months now. My shoulder can handle this and more," John replied, walking over to press Sherlock's body firmly against one of the walls, as he dreamed of doing since the hospital. Sherlock moaned, lifting his legs and hooking them around his waist, throwing his head back.

John put a hand around Sherlock's ass and braced with the other against the wall. Then he started thrusting hard and fast, delighted in the feeling of Sherlock's warm body around his cock. 

He felt tears welling up in his eyes, remembering when, in the solitude of his room, he dreamed of feeling Sherlock in his arms again, pressing his body against the wall, hugging and kissing him as he fucked him with all his might. 

And now, Sherlock was there, throwing his head back, closing his eyes, his face contorted with pleasure, holding tight against him, writhing with pleasure with every thrust of his cock into his prostate, the volume of his moans increasing, accompanying John's groans.

John hammered harder against Sherlock's prostate; the detective twisted and shuddered, his back arching in pleasure, now crying openly, the physical pleasure mingling with the bliss of being in John's arms again. 

John tugged hard on his hair, and Sherlock moaned louder, feeling his teeth nibbling at his sensitive skin, pushing down with each thrust, to feel him deeper inside, his orgasm getting closer and closer. An orgasm very different from any he ever had until he met John; mechanical orgasms in strangers' beds or dark alleys on drug-fuelled nights. This was brutal, deeper, blissful, complete, and was going to break him in two. 

"ohfuckjohnohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckjooooh" he moaned breathlessly, each word following the increasing rhythm of John's cock hammering him mercilessly. 

His neglected cock dripped profusely, trapped between their bodies, as John continued to slam into him, rocking him against the wall, kissing him hungrily, both panting and gasping in each other's mouth. John almost coming listening to Sherlock's little mewls of pleasure in his mouth, his shivers, his begs…

He grabbed Sherlock's cock, almost giggling at the relieved moan it granted from him, swiped his thumb over the head, and started stroking it in time with his hard thrusts, delighted at the feeling of Sherlock's body bouncing on him, subdued, surrendered to the pleasure John gave him, eyes closed, mouth open, galloping towards his orgasm at the same pace as him. 

When he sensed Sherlock was bordering the edge, John moved down to bit one of his nipples softly. The detective came hard between them as John filled him with his cum, both shouting each other's names, until he practically collapsed on Sherlock's body, trapping him on the wall. 

They lay in silence for a while, holding each other, panting, riding the waves of their respective orgasms, their shared orgasm, lost in a haze of pleasure and bliss. 

John reluctantly lowered Sherlock's legs to the floor, pulling his cock out of him slowly. He would have liked to stay like this forever, but his shoulder began to protest. 

"I still can't believe you showed up with balloons and a cake in NYS" muttered Sherlock, his eyes still closed, embracing him hard, as fearing John could disappear. 

John chuckled, blushing a bit at the memory of how ridiculous he felt, and hugged him back, both rocking softly.

"I needed you to get your memory back, no matter how."

"Thank you for never giving up looking for me" muttered Sherlock, still a bit amazed. From the beginning, John was the first that accepted him like he was, who loved him with all his edges, and contradictions. The only who really knew him.

"I wasn't going to stop until I found you" mumbled John. 

"People usually run away from me." 

"People are idiots." 

Sherlock chuckled. 

"I love you, John."

"I love you, Sherlock, Happy Valentine's Day." 

They stood like that for a few moments, kissing softly, losing themselves in each other's eyes, caressing each other, overwhelmed by the certainty that it was real, that they were there, together at last. 

"We should take a shower" John finally said, looking at the sticky mess of chocolate, raspberry and cum on their bodies. "And order something to eat. A proper meal" he stated, noticing Sherlock was about to argue. 

The detective chuckled and nodded, took John's outstretched hand and followed him happily into the bathroom.

The black car stopped in front of 221 Baker Street. Mycroft looked at the black door through the tinted window. 

"Is this the address?" 

Anthea, sitting next to him, nodded. 

Mycroft got out of the car and pushed the main door, opened by one of his men. He sighed, climbed the seventeen steps and knocked on the door with the handle of his umbrella, hoping not to end up with a black eye.

John, putting a towel around his waist, went over to open the door. He stood still, shocked, looking at the man of the warehouse in the doorway. His surprise turned to anger. 

"I told you I never wanted to see you again," he growled, threateningly. 

Mycroft raised his head.

"Doctor Watson, I..."

He paused as he saw Sherlock approaching, one towel around his waist, drying his hair with another, his body full of little hickeys and bites that he preferred not to analyse. 

The detective looked at his brother and then at John, both glaring at each other. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked finally. 

"As ever, I'm concerned about you" replied Mycroft.

John watched them, surprised. It was evident that they knew each other. 

"This guy kidnapped me," John grunted. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Mummy told you to stop kidnapping people, Mycroft." 

John frowned. 

"Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft."

John looked at him, amazed at first, and then angrily again. 

"Why did you want me to stay away from him?"

"I wasn't sure of your... intentions regarding my brother. I only wanted to protect him. But clearly, he is already well... protected." 

Sherlock snorted. John stiffened, advancing a step towards Mycroft, menacing. 

"I'm not going to walk away from him." 

Mycroft smiled to himself. When Lestrade told him what happened on the stairs, he remembered that his men informed him about a man trying to get information about Sherlock. But as he registered him as William and made any trace of his time in the hospital disappear, he knew he needn't worry that he might find him. 

Oddly enough, trying to keep John away from his brother, it was he who eventually led him to Sherlock. The universe was rarely lazy... 

"I know. I hope you will be a good influence on him." 

"Mycroft!" 

John chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. That guy was a real piece of work. But he cared about Sherlock. 

"I must go. By the way, Doctor Watson, I hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of having your things brought here tomorrow, as well as yours, dear brother. I hope you formalise the rent as soon as possible". 

"Thank you, Mycroft," John said, amazed. 

He bowed his head in greeting, closing the door behind him. 

"That's a pain in the ass of a brother" he heard John say. 

"He has his good points," Sherlock replied. 

Mycroft chuckled fondly and went down the stairs to get into the car. 

"Sherlock won't be spending Valentine's Day alone this year, then" smiled Anthea. 

"No, not this year, not ever again." 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed it
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome


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